Paper Son
by Band10hut
Summary: Jack Kelly, an illegal Chinese immigrant, reflects on how Disney's hit musical portrays him and the Newsboy Strike of 1899 while also pondering what determines whose stories get told and remembered. A rewrite of my old story, now named Paper Son: First Draft
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

You won't find me in the history books The aging records locked away in archives and libraries don't contain my story. Even in this fancy American musical a company called Disney made, you won't find my history. Not all of it.

My tale is one passed down by word of mouth, through my family's blood, just like the anecdotes of my ancestors. True, there are some photographs, proof of my existence, as well as some documents. Did I mention this account? But the true nuance of my life story exists only in theory, in the memory of those who hear.

An old man once told me if something wasn't in the papers, it never happened. By that logic, I did not exist until my seventeenth year, in the New York of 1899, where the streets echoed with the voices of newsies, peddling the newspapers of Joseph Pulitzer, William Randolph Hearst, and other giants of the newspaper world. Poor orphans and runaways; both in my case.

1899 lives forever in my memory. Ever since, there's been a Before and After when it comes to the brink of the twentieth century. The end of an old era, the dawn of a new. The time the newsies, myself included, set the business world on fire. We, who once delivered the papers, now made the headlines!

The newspaper men's responses towards our disturbance in the normal running of things varied: some admired seeing a David take on Goliath, while others recognized the danger we posed to them as well as their competitors. Eventually they came to the unanimous consensus that they retained the vital power to subdue us if our efforts went unnoticed by the papers. That's what a certain old man told me, right? A headline crowns the victor in a war.

I must admit I haven't been in the papers as much as I like, nor has my type, despite our abundance of material. Nevertheless, my life has been defined by paper.

Paper erased my true self then gave it back to me years later. It took me far away from home, changing my name along with those of my ancestors- a grave insult, it seemed to me at the time. And in the year of our Lord 1899, paper was my livelihood. Hawking headlines, drawing my fears and dreams on discarded sheets- paper kept me alive.

And in 1899, three newspapers changed my everything. Three is a lucky number, symbolizing birth (in my case rebirth). One started out as the basis of my world (see the pun?), which I changed for good; the second contained an article written by an extraordinary Snake girl, which illuminated my fight to the rest of New York City; and the third, an old rag secretly (probably illegally) on a cast off printing press brought me to the finish line. A complete triangle.

Where is this article? I can't say for certain. Most were thrown away and disintegrated within time. Some folks even wrapped their fishes in it. But our (yes, this was a group effort conducted by the working boys of New York, mainly the newsies, not to brag) moment of stardom shone, even if it lasted only a minute. Many of us kept a copy, framing it for posterity should we maybe live to raise families. I personally kept an edition framed; where I went it came too.

We're not in the history books. But our article remains, as do the effects of our fights, carried on by later generations. We don't get much credit, but it stopped mattering to me personally. Much of my individual narrative has been lost, blurred, and distorted, but the basis remains. Besides, I don't mind being sanitized to an extent by this musical, although I do find it incomplete due its lack of knowledge about the true me (through no one's fault; history tends to obscure itself while trying to do the exact opposite!).

So may I offer you this account? It's humble. I have no musical talents, no wonderful dancing. I don't resemble the actors portraying me in the least: they are based off the vague insights the papers offered into my personality, but their appearances are closer to those of my comrades. Will you take me as I am: an irritable seventeen year old artist hiding his identity? No parents, no soliloquies, none of the glamour the rose lens of retrospect offer (that I wish had been there in reality)? Am I still your king of New York? I wonder.

But I know for sure one thing I am. Might I divulge? I beg your pardon: I am a paper son.

* * *

 **This is a rewrite of my old one-shot, Paper Son. Please read and review. Thank you.**


	2. Santa Fe

Chapter One

"Ah!" I bolted upright, sweat enveloping me. Cold, bone-chilling sweat that matched my dream on my clothes, my face, soaking even into the worn cotton sheets around me. Disgusting.

"Hey shut up!" Race hollered from his bunk below mine. "I'm trying to sleep." He banged the bottom of my bed.

"Yeah, and I'm trying to wake you up 'cause you're so great to be around, right?" I sarcastically retorted.

"Save your breath," someone else snarled. "You'll need it for the streets."

"Can it!" Race barked. "See what ya did, Jack?"

I opened my mouth, ready to unleash a string of comebacks, but that would just start a chain reaction. More cranky newsies woken up, more angry comments, less sleep for everyone, and less pennies. No thank you.

I kicked my sheets off while Race burrowed deeper into his. Shaking my head, I noticed his precious (stolen) Corona cigar was missing from his (also stolen) tin cup. In the bunk to our right, Albert, the trickster, muttered in his sleep, "I didn't do it, I didn't do it…" It was barely audible, and Race's ears never worked the same ever since he had the brains to stand next to the fireworks on the Fourth of July four years ago.

I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh and hide a smirk. Good for Albert. Race was by no means a bad person, but he could afford to be knocked down a peg or two.

I laid in bed for half an hour, tossing and turning, constantly readjusting the sheets. Only two hours, probably less, before sunrise, when we had to get up. Unfortunately, my anxiety over getting sleep chased it away. Eventually, after nearly kicking my blankets onto Race, I climbed out of bed, grabbed my dusty leather boots and cap, and headed up to the rooftop.

The smoggy city sky resembled a child's attempt at charcoal drawing. Charcoal spreads and smears so easy; it takes years of practice to get it right.

I pulled my rolled up drawings out of a metal cylinder stuck on the edge. I had no idea what the original purpose was, but it made a good hiding place for my drawings- the ones I wanted hidden, at least. The painting I did for Miss Medda- my second boss of sorts- stayed at her place.

I sifted through the stack of yellowing paper, careful not to smudge anything, searching for my nightmare. Yes, my nightmare. I never spoke about them to any human being, but paper made a good listener. No judging, no gasps of horror, no feigned sympathy; it just did what you wanted. So I made it share my burden.

Finally, I found it. I pulled out the biggest sheet, torn at the sides from being shoved down the cylinder too harshly. A charcoal boy laid crumpled on a filthy floor where rats scurried. Dark, thick rivulets of blood flowed from his side, his legs, his screaming face. Above him, an older man wearing a fine wool suit raised his sleek leather belt high, all too ready to add to the boy's misery.

The pictures couldn't show everything, of course. There's no second drawing of the boy suffering in bed for ten days, nor any image of the pitiful funeral his bunkmates held on the eleventh day. Those now exist only in memory.

I closed my eyes. Wherever this kid's' soul ended up, I hoped he knew I remembered him years later. Especially tonight.

Wearily, I rolled my drawings up, uninterested in editing. My bones ached. Rest, sleep, a chance to wake up normal, without bad dreams or some old man badgering me out of bed. Was that too much to ask for?

I curled up on the hard concrete. The idea alone relaxed me. I just started drifting off when I heard a clang from the stairwell. Annoyed, I cracked an eye open. Crutchie- a kid two years younger than me with a bad leg and crutch (hence the name)- hobbled up onto the rooftop, panting.

"Hey," I said. "Where ya going?" Crutchie ignored me, determinedly heading for the fire escape.

"What are you-" I sighed. "The bell ain't rung yet, go back to sleep."

"I wanna beat the other fellas to the streets," he replied nonchalantly, never taking his eyes off the ladder. "One good foot on the first rung, the bad one still on the roof, the crutch precariously nestled under his shoulder.

 _He's gonna kill himself._

"I don't want anyone to see that I ain't, uh, been walking so good," he added. He lowered the bad onto the rung. I fought the urge to dash over and drag him back up, but Crutchie hated being carried or yanked like a prisoner of war, or worse, a child.

"Oh quit griping," I muttered. "You know how many guys fake a limp for sympathy? That bum leg of yours is a gold mine." The memory of my father's great hopes of finding gold in California pinched my brain. I pushed it down; the bell would ring any minute, I couldn't get sentimental.

 _Be angry; angry is strong. Remember that man and his dream wrecked your life._

Crutchie shook his head. "Some gets the idea i can't make it on my own, they'll lock me up in the Refuge for good." The Refuge, the source of my nightmares. I inwardly cringe. "Be a pal Jack, help me down!" He yelped as his good foot slipped. The wooden crutch banged against the wall, Crutchie's right hand clutched the ladder in a deathly grip while the rest of him dangled above the alley.

"Hey you wanna bust your other leg too?" I gave into my previous urge and pulled him back up onto the solid rooftop.

"No, I wanna go down," he sheepishly insisted, totally unaffected by the fact he nearly broke his neck.

"You'll be down there soon enough," I grumbled. "Take a moment, drink in my penthouse. High above the stinking streets of New York."

"You're crazy," he chuckled.

"Why, 'cause I like a breath of fresh air? 'Cause I like seeing the sky and stars?" It didn't feel right to take it out on Crutchie, but I was pissed. I didn't get enough sleep, the nightmares kept me awake, and now Crutchie was acting like I belonged in some asylum after I hauled his ass up from the ladder.

"Yeah, you're seeing stars alright." His snicker cut short when he looked at my scowling face, staring down at the streets. His sepia eyes met mine; no words required, he knew what happened in my mind that night. Jokes flew out the window, and Crutchie leaned against the rooftop's side with me, as if to say, "I'm listening."

I smiled slightly, suddenly not caring about time. I gestured coldy to the gray alley beneath us.

"Them stinking streets down there," I began. "They sucked the life outta my old man. Years of rotten jobs, stomped on by bosses, and when they finally broke him, they tossed him out on the curb like yesterday's paper. Well they ain't doing that to me!"

I hollered to let them know they couldn't break me. I'd get out, do what my father ruined his life, along with mine, trying to do.

My father, my baba, was a man based on hope. He believed that in America, anything was possible. You could be a poor, uneducated, illegal immigrant wandering the port one day and a millionaire the next. If you worked hard enough, you'd surely make it. Too bad that logic didn't work for our type. Far from the first time, I wished my face wasn't a yellow one- an invitation for people to come and judge, not to mention a dead giveaway for Warder Snyder of the Refuge.

"But everyone wants to come to New York," Crutchie whispered weakly. His pupils looked like they wanted to slide back into his private thoughts, deep within his head. I clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. _He's thinking about his family too._

A twinge of guilt gnawed at me. Crutchie had no need for my sob stories. I got elected leader; strength was a job requirement.

"New York's fine if you got a big strong door to lock up," I said. "I tell you personally, there's a whole nother world out there. You keep your small life in a big city. But give me a big life in a small town…"

Bad dreams wore me down. They forced me to question everything about everything: my hiding places, the newsies' loyalty, whether I really belonged in this country or not…

So I combatted it with a good dream, which I created myself. Something no one, not even Snyder the Spider, could take away.

"Folks are dying to get here, but me, I'm dying to get away," I mused, gazing into the muddied river of the sky. 'There's a little town out west, made of clay. It's spanking new, so there's lots of work. Planting crops, splitting rails, riding horses… think of it, Crutchie. Imagine doing all that-"

I regretted the words as soon as they came outta my big mouth. Cruthcie glanced at his gimp leg, rendered useless by polio. Remorse hounded me.

"Hey uh, er,-" I fumbled for an apology- one that didn't involve actually saying, _I'm sorry._ "Hey, uh, why don't you come with me?" I blurted out, not totally realizing what I said. His head perked up. As I stumbled onto this new thought, I tumbled into a treasure trove of dreams. "No gimp leg holds you back there! You ride a palomino; you ride in style!"

"Picture me riding in style!" He laughed.

"I bet that with a few months of clean air, you could toss that crutch for good!"

"That means-" his eyes glowed brighter than stars. "-I stand. On my own. I'd stand, run...we'd go swimming. There's water, right?"

"The Rio Grande. Swim the whole length for the fun of it."

"Yeah, yeah, tell me more!"

I raved about cowboys, campfires, horses, cattle, the sky- especially the sky- especially sunsets and stars- until the orange sun's newborn rays penetrated the purplish clouds. Downstairs, a rusty bell chimed thrice. Damn.

"Time for dreaming's done," I sighed. I bent over the side to face the windows. "Hey, Specs, Race, Henry, Albert, get a move on! The papes don't sell themselves!"

We headed for the stairwell leading inside, to the bunks and bathrooms. The dreamer faded as the tough leader awoke. I mentally away my, now _our_ , dream of Santa Fe, New Mexico, making a beeline for the shaving cream. Crutchie, already dressed, patiently waited beside my bunk. Did I mention he was my best friend?


	3. New York Blooming

"Come on Crutchie!" I called as I clambered down the stairs toward the vestibule, which the newborn sun bathed in its clashing daffodil rays. Not all like the sun in Santa Fe; that one must be grander, more majestic- a yolk in the cloudless azure sky, where you could actually see it. Or so I figured.

"Hold ya horses, Jack." Crutchie gripped the rail tightly, making his way down as fast as possible. The rumbles of the crowd behind us urged him on. "This is why I wanted to go early."

"Gee, I thought you only wanted to break your good leg," I retorted playfully.

"Shut up."

"Face it, you owe me."

His face wrinkled. "Never."

"Wanna a bet?"

"I'm not stupid enough to do bets. Who do I look like, Race?"

Speaking of the little devil, Race's shrill whining bounced off the boarding house's paper thin walls upstairs.

"That's my cigar!"

"You'll steal another." Albert, the local trickster, lazily drawled. Handsome black eyes, copper skin, curly brown hair- picture a Mexican version of the Monkey King, a wily, rebellious hero in Chinese stories that brought us Buddhism from India. It made sense, I realized, considering Albert came into this world in the year of our Lord 1884- the Year of the Monkey.

"Give it back, you rotten tightwad!" Race screeched, charging him.

"Nothing doing, chump!" Albert burst out the vestibule doors into Duane Street, laughing as he triumphantly held up the Corona. Race bolted after him, face steamed red, fists clenched.

"Get outta here, boys, or you'll be bumming tonight!" Kloppmann, the poor ancient fellow the city hired to keep the boarding house tidy, herded the rest of us out like sheep, literally waving a wooden stick at our backs. "Then you'll be remembering how nice this steam gratin was while you're freezing in the old alley in the worst neighborhood. And you'll wonder why you didn't listen to old Kloppmann and poke up at the right time so you could stay at this diggins!"

"Even me, old Klopper?" I saucily asked. Kloppmann swung his stick at me; I ducked and jumped over the stair railing onto the vestibule floor. My boots slammed onto the creaky pine boards while my front lurched forward. I landed on my hands, pushing up fast enough to stumble over to the door, still on two feet.

"Jack, you nuts?" Kloppmann shrieked. "You mighta killed yourself! Are you off your trolley? That shoulda rendered ya dead, and I wish it had! You always do these dangerous things just to upset me- are you even listening?" He went on and on about my new publicity stunt, shaking his head as he trudged back upstairs to clean.

On the other hand, the boys- my boys- cheered as they rushed down the stairs, Mush pulling me up and clapping me on the back.

"Brilliant Jackie!"

"How'd you learn to do that?"

"Best one yet!"

I smiled and shrugged as if nothing happened. Getting the boys' attention became a daily ritual for me, being their leader and all. It wasn't that I was a bit of a glory hound- wait, I take that back, I did love being in the spotlight. Probably too much for my own good.

"Jack, you're too much," Crutchie muttered as he reached me. An odd mix of laughter and disapproval clouded his brown eyes. That summed Crutchie pretty well, in all honesty: an odd mixture. He could voice his doubts about my dumb ideas without a second thought, but he believed he could make it in this city, even with a Chinese face plus a gimp leg. Optimism for himself, realism for the rest of us. Strange, but that's what I liked about him.

"I know."

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I need to find a new selling spot. There were these church ladies who saw my limp and said they should call for someone to come and…" He swallowed nervously. "Collect me. Make sure I get taken care of."

I didn't bother hiding my shudder. To imagine someone as happy as Crutchie locked away in the Refuge, for who knows how long under Warden Snyder's thumb… we needed to get to Santa Fe as soon as possible. There he could ride a horse, breathe fresh air, live a life of freedom that our type couldn't find in New York.

"Just hold on till that train makes Santa Fe," I whispered, letting Jack the Dreamer break through for a moment. Crutchie gave a half hearted grin.

"Hey, you coming?" Henry, Lover of Food, hollered. This boy dreamed of nothing but a good meal; he'd spend precious pennies on extra elaborate foods on a whim. One time he sprinkled Indian chili powder over a hunk of bread. When I axed him why, he shrugged. "Reminds me of home." he said dryly before swallowing the bread whole and choking on the spiciness.

"Yeah, yeah," I shouted back. We left the Newsboy Lodging House for the sunny streets of New York City. So placid, calm, rather clear. But I knew its moods; within a single hour we'd be pushing to get through the ever-growing crowd, hoping folks would want to pay us to get bad, exaggerated news. Only at night, long after the sun sunk back below the horizon, would the illusion of quiet return.

"Any ideas for a new selling spot?" I ask for Crutchie as we pass the Horace Greeley statue stuck in the middle of the cobblestone. Answers flood rapidly.

"Try Bottle Alley or the harbor," Race suggested, chewing on his reclaimed cigar.

"You stupid? Italians don't like Orientals," Finch, a Filipino fighter, snapped. "Try a baker, bum, or barber. They almost all knows how to read."

"Bums don't read, nitwit." Specs interjected, peeping through his glasses. How he got glasses, hence the name, I haven't the slightest idea. All we knew was that he didn't steal them; he swore on the Bible, and you never swore on the Bible and lied unless you wanted a ticket to Hell. Nevertheless, the color or the shape or something looked good against his hazel skin and tight, curly hair.

"Well bankers and barbers do. They gotta go to school to get such high up jobs."

"Barbers don't have to read to cut hair." Romeo d'Art, who couldn't live a second without a girl(s) on his arm, added.

"Then bankers for sure."

"I still thinks Bottle Alley's a better idea." Race grumbled.

"You thinks everything you come up with is a good idea." Finch snorted.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Nothing much."

"Nothing much? You looking for a fight?"

"Hey you two, can it," I barked. "We gotta stick together or the other gangs are gonna get our asses on a silver platter." That shut the boys up real quick. Gangs were no joking matter; in cities as big as New York, resources could get scarce. Rich men just dug into their bottomless pockets while finding a way to make a buck off it, but for poor fellas, including newsies, it could mean war.

"Like when Brian was around," Elmer, the sixteen year old baby, said.

"Did you have to mention that?" Race hissed. "Like we don't already know?"

Brian O'Kelly. Our leader before me, who pulled us through most of the last newsie gang war two years ago. It was us, the Tigers- immigrants, a good deal of us black and brown- against the "Natives"- Protestant, mostly white (some mighta hid their full identities)- who accused us of stealing their jobs and places in the boarding house. (Henry took personal offense at them calling themselves "Natives," considering his Mohawk ancestors lived here long before any of them.) From small scuffles on the street to giant brawls that landed some kids in jail, the hospital (given that someone could pay), or the graveyard, we battled over everything, from selling spots to our claims to Americanness. Things got so bad that Spot Conlon and his Brooklyn boys nearly stepped in after Brian…

Brian, I hope you know I took your last name to honor you, not steal it. To remember you died saving us from Don, that scumbag who told us we didn't belong here.

But I couldn't say Don Rump,- I'm sorry, Don Trumpeter- who also lay in the ground due to the war, wasn't entirely wrong. Was it possible for your destiny to be in a place that hated you? I would not believe Fate to be quite that cruel.

"Oh, would you look at that beauty?" Romeo gushed, his cherubic face aglow. I glanced towards the corner, where Duane St. met Centre St. Sure enough, a pretty girl clad in a purple ladies' suit stood next to the street lamp. A scrawny man squished into an oversized dapper suit nervously stood next to her- I hated chaperones. They always got in the way.

"Why hello beautiful," Romeo sang as we passed the girl, removing his cap. Rolling my eyes, I shoved the flirt aside.

"Whoa, whoa, step aside Romeo; nothing here concerns you." I tipped my hat to the miss. "Can I interest you in the latest news?"

"The paper hasn't come out yet," she replied coolly. Now that I got a close look at her face, she truly was a beauty. Curly copper hair with a single curl peeking out from behind each ear. A high, broad forehead and large earlobes- very lucky. Her smooth skin showed no signs of hard labor, save for a writer's bump on her left hand. Her lips pressed together in a pensive line while her doe brown eyes absentmindedly gazed at the sky.

"I would be delighted to deliver it to you personally," I offered, tilting my head so that my hair shadowed my face. The boys sniggered behind me, but I personally thought my hair looked good when a few loose strands hung out.

The miss's frown curled into a crisp simper. "No, I've got a headline for you." She beckoned for me to lean in closer. "Cheeky boy gets nothing for his troubles."

"Oooh!" The boys hooted. My cheeks reddened, but I kept my smiling demeanor. A smart working girl… I did enjoy a good challenge. Unless they hated Chinamen, most girls fell straight into my arms, expect when some other lucky bastard picked them up first. Such as…

"Back to the bench, slugger," Romeo gleefully called. "You struck out!"

I pushed him again. "Stupidhead."

"Good day, boys," the chaperone squeaked as they hurried away. I shrugged, hoping that'd be the last I'd see of him. Damn chaperones. I was willing to bet a lot of rich girls would take me, even for only a day or two, if the bloody adults stayed out of the way.

"Jack, my selling spot?" Crutchie nudged me.

"Oh yeah. So you doing what Finch said?"

"Since when was Finch right about anything?"

"True."

"I heard that!" Finch flicked his hand at us. "You're just jealous, aren't ya?"

"Jealous? Of you?" I threw my head back, guffawing. "Yeah, talk in the mirror some more."

"Bonehead."

"Muttonhead."

"Idiot."

"Fool."

"Will you two stop it?" Crutchie butted in. "We're talking about my selling spot, not comparing which one of you is more stupid. Finch, why you always getting into fights? You're not even in the tavern."

Finch shrugged. "Waiting makes me antsy. Me, I likes living chancy."

"I'll carve on your gravestone," I volunteered.

"Very funny," he pouted. "At least I ain't a hot air artist."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't see me jumping off railings just to impress us and piss off Kloppmann, eh?"

"You piss off Kloppmann when you come back stinking of beer, your face breaking out in a rash, and pus leaking off you. It's disgusting."

"I do not leak pus."

"Yes you do. You just don't remember 'cause you're drunk every time you stumble in our door, whining bout this or that. By the time you're sober, the wounds are cleaned and Kloppmann's too worn out to give you a lecture."

"He gives me a paddling sometimes. It's stupid; I'm eighteen, for God's sake!"

"You're stupid."

"Watch it, Jack!"

I stuck my tongue at him. He raised an eyebrow warningly before returning to his usual grin. Even if I inherited Brian's title, older boys required respect.

"Jack." Crutchie sounded exasperated.

"Oh, sorry Crutchie, I was-uh, well, I'm sorry." I truly meant it. No matter how hard I tried, sometimes I forgot he still needed attention.

"It's fine. I'm not doing Bottle Alley, in case you're wondering. Italians don't like Chinamen."

"Yeah, you're right. So you selling to bankers?"  
"Maybe they'll feel sorry for me. I don't know."

"Don't worry Crutchie," Race yelled from behind Romeo. "A limp sells fifty papes a week all on its own!"

I cringed. Why Race? Why you have to make an ass outta yourself every single day? I swear…

If the comment upset Crutchie- I had a sinking sensation it did- he didn't show any sign. "I don't need the limp to sell papes," he insisted adamantly. "I got personality."

"Such as?"  
"A good smile. That turns a lady's head." He winked at me. "If Jack wasn't hogging them all, I'd have a whole herd of 'em."

"You think I'm hogging them?" I poked Romeo's head. "What about this fool?"  
"Aw shut it," the lovesick newsie yowled. "Half of your girls are the ones you stole from me?"

"Why, they sick of you?"

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not. They only want to make me jealous. You're just a tool to get closer to me." He puffed out his chest. "Who'd pass this up for a scarecrow like you?"

I jabbed his side. Romeo yelped, stumbling. We all chuckled. Romeo rammed into me. I shoved him for the third time that day. We tussled lightly- no injuries, no hard feelings, no sinister motives. I eventually got him in a headlock, which made him howl.

"Stop it, stop- Jack, I'm gonna skunk you!" he wailed when I began messing up his hair. "Oh, you'll never wanna let me go after this…"

"Big baby." I let him go. Romeo eagerly took a swing at me, which I ducked.

"I hope we have a good headline," Specs noted.

"If it stinks, make one up," said I. "Headlines don't sell papes, newsies sell papes."

"They better, after all that trolley strike garbage," Albert chimed in. "A mi no me gustan noticias lentas, especialamente cuando necesito comer."

"What you just say?" Specs inquired.

"Ninguna de tu negocio."

"Albert, you know I don't speak Spanish!"

"Por eso lo hablo." He smiled in satisfaction. Specs pouted and poked him in the ribs.

"That's real mean, Albert, real mean."

"Ellos no ensenan espanol en Harlem?"

"Leave Harlem out of this!"

"It wasn't an insult." Albert snatched his hat, revealing a mass of tight curls. "I just said they need to teach you more Spanish."

"My old neighbor spoke Spanish- give me my hat!" Specs lunged and missed. "Albert, please!"

"Say it in Spanish!" Albert waved the hat enticingly above his head. "Seriously, if we're gonna be partners-"

"Forget it!" Specs elbowed him in the ribs, buying enough time to jump up and grab his precious cap. "We're through."

"You'll be back!"  
"No I won't!" Specs stormed off to talk to Mush, who shared his Harlem heritage and dark skin.

"I'd like to bet on that," Crutchie muttered on his breath.

"They'll prolly be sucking the lips off each other by tonight," I added. "Then fighting again. Then kissing. It just goes on and on."

"I heard that!" Albert growled. "God, does anyone get any privacy around here?"

"What are you, new?"

"You two, stop that!" A tall, severe looking nun stood in a wagon full of bread. "I don't feed bad boys!"

Ah, the Holy Sisters of St. Andrew's Roman Catholic Church, who'd come out to feed the poor hungry orphans. Three at a time, they rode out of the church's safety in a wagon, passing out slices and crusts of bread to starving children. A good free breakfast that saved us money, but like everything in New York, their good deeds demanded a price.

"Thanks for the grub, sisters!" Elmer blabbed as he shoved a hunk in his mouth.

"When are we going to see you inside the church, now?" the saucy leader queries sternly.

"I don't know, Sister," he said between bites. "But it's bound to rain sooner or later."

"Today if you don't get outta the way," Race warned, butting him aside. One by one we got our bread; Specs and I hoisted Crutchie up to grab his piece.

"Hello?" An older woman, dressed in washed out rags, grabbed Albert by the shoulders. "Patrick, that you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Patrick, Patrick, please-" The woman shook him erratically, her voice spiraling into a desperate wail. "Is that you? Don't you recognize me, your mother? I know it's been a long time, but please, you broke my heart when you left me… Patrick, it's me, your mother! Don't you recognize me?" Her pupils dilated with hope, but shrunk into tiny specks upon an amber plain as realization dawned.

"I'm not Patrick, I'm sorry, I ain't your son." Albert warily backed out of her embrace. "My parents are dead. Patrick is not here."

"No, no." She shook her head repeatedly. "Patrick is here, yes, Patrick is somewhere. Patrick is, he is-" Her words sputtered in great sobs. One of the sisters jumped off the wagon to comfort her.

"There, there," she murmured softly, resting the mother's head in the crook of her neck. "Take it easy. God is watching your son. If he is a good Christian, then he'll have eternal life."

God. Another thing about New York, or all of America, really, that confused me. How could God be benevolent if he demanded you worshipped him and him alone? Maybe I was biased; after all, if my father hadn't been forced me to sit through hour-long sermons preached in English that I didn't understand, I might have learned to accept American religion on my own terms.

"Let's go," Crutchie urged. We hurried down Centre without hesitation. It was terrible to see parents searching for lost children, but the nagging sadness numbed since it wasn't uncommon.

I wonder if Aileen ever… Stop, I commanded my brain. Stop right there. If I couldn't control what happened around me, at least I might be able to discipline my mind.

"I think Central Park's the best place, honestly," I finally told Crutchie. "Lots of people who'll admire your personality. Or Park Row, if you want rich folks to fawn over you."

"Thanks Jack," he said. I clapped his back as we hurried to Joseph Pulitzer's building- a magnificent tower rising from Park Row, made of stone, covered in giant glass windows, and topped by a golden dome with a flag pole. The biggest building of the time, and the crowning jewel of the World.

"Come on, you," I chuckled. New York was waking up with us; the sun had banished the night's melancholy blues completely. Carts, wagons, and buggies already cluttered the streets, pushing through throngs of people. Stalls hawking every product imaginable, from lumpy vegetables to fried donuts attracting more flies than paying customers, sprang up almost instantaneously, the way a flower bud opens the one moment you turn your back. The lucky salesmen who actually had buildings shooed vendors away from their windows, afraid their stores literally would be blocked out.

So we walked, in a pack of brothers, a mosaic of faces. July 17, 1899 bloomed as we traveled down the familiar cobblestones, to where Centre St. bled into Park Row, to where Joseph Pulitzer sold us our daily papes, to where I'd meet a pair of brothers who'd change the game for good.


End file.
